The Weary Trail of Deathless Days
by Miss Kristin of the Shire
Summary: Frodo and Bilbo have spent many years living peacefully in the Blessed Realm, but Frodo fears that time is beginning to take its toll on his uncle even in the Undying Lands.
1. Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Uncle," a voice greeted Bilbo's ears warmly as rich amber light filtered through the window and decorated his wizened face like a golden nimbus. The elderly hobbit lifted his eyelids and greeted his addresser with a sleepy smile.

"Hullo, Frodo! I'd ask you for the time but I'm afraid what your answer will be. You've let me sleep in much longer than I ought to have from the looks of it," he half-chided. Frodo smiled at his uncle's good-humoured admonition. It had become something of a daily routine between the two of them ever since their arrival on the Blessed Isle to begin each day thusly, and Frodo secretly delighted in the familiarity of this undeviating pattern. It cultivated in him a sense of normalcy and groundedness, connecting him back to the comforting simplicity of his homeland.

Not that he had any grounds for complaint in his current place of residence – far from it – but Bilbo's presence had given him a sense of real _belonging_. Indeed, it had been much the same when Bilbo had invited him to live in Bag End another lifetime ago. Although Frodo had been very fond of his relations in Brandy Hall and had become particularly close with certain among them in after-days, he had often felt isolated as a lad, counterintuitive as it may seem in such a densely populated living space. He had sometimes thought himself more a nameless occupant than a true member of the family, a boarder who came and went as he pleased and took his vittles appreciatively and drifted unobtrusively through the many-corridored halls without anyone taking much notice. It was easy to feel invisible amid so large a company and easier still to be drowned out by the clamour and the din of so many competing voices. But that had all changed when he had come to live with Bilbo.

The camaraderie between them had been instantaneous, so much so that Frodo's move to Hobbiton seemed a matter of course. The similarities in character and personality that the two shared were quite striking from the first, but they became especially pronounced once young Frodo came under his uncle's tutelage. Indeed, Bilbo's eagerness to instruct him in the lore and language of the Elves, to regale him with stories from his own legendary adventure, and to lend an ear to his nephew whenever he desired it had effectively moulded Frodo into the hobbit that he was today. Where his feet had wandered aimlessly (and often errantly) in Brandy Hall, he had finally found purchase in the well-laid groundwork of Bag End. Where he had once thought himself set adrift in an ever-shifting sea of relations, he had found his rock in Bilbo. And if their rapport had been effortless before, it was strengthened twofold in the days that followed by Frodo's abiding love and gratitude for his benefactor.

Now, in this magnificent country across the Sea, Bilbo had continued to be a constant that Frodo could depend upon when he needed centering, a return to selfhood when he was lost in the enchantment and majesty of the High Elves. Truly, Frodo's decision to leave the shores of Middle-earth had hinged on whether or not Bilbo would be taking the last journey with him for just these reasons, and he could hardly imagine how he should have fared if Bilbo had not been by his side.

These thoughts fluttered across his mind in the space of a moment as he looked upon Bilbo's face, and he answered to his uncle's objection.

"Now now, Bilbo, I won't hear of it! You've reached an age where you are more than entitled to a bit of extra bed rest. There's no need in waking you any sooner than when you are good and ready to do so."

"Which is to say, 'stop your grumbling you silly old dolt, I'll do as I very well please whether you approve or not, thank you very much!' Typical Baggins' stubbornness!"

"If so, then you have only yourself to blame, for I have ever learned by your example," Frodo retorted, grinning as impishly as though he were a hobbit still in his tweens.

"Ah well, you have me there I suppose. But it's still no excuse for letting your uncle degenerate into a shameless sluggard."

"Nonsense! You're just as lively and hale as you were the day you set first set foot on these shores," Frodo replied, and not without truth.

"Hmph, yes, just as lively as I was at 131 you mean to say. If that is an attempt at flattery, you'll have to do better, lad," Bilbo rejoined sardonically.

"Well then, perhaps I might in some measure be forgiven after you have sat down to the breakfast that I have made for you and is cooling even as we speak."

"Yes, I daresay you should!" Bilbo chuckled, "Now help an old hobbit out of bed before this breakfast of yours gets any colder."

With that, the two hobbits breakfasted quite sumptuously, for Frodo's skill as a cook had improved greatly since coming to the Blessed Lands, and the open windows let in an invigorating ocean breeze which did for their spirits what the morning repast had done for their stomachs. Frodo leaned back contentedly in his chair, lacing his fingers across his midsection and studying Bilbo's face with interest. He could not be sure precisely how much time had passed since he and Bilbo had come to live among the Elves, but if Bilbo's longevity had been a marvel when they had first departed, his antiquity would now be considered downright unnatural by the reckoning of their kinsfolk. But such was the power of the western lands, and Frodo counted himself doubly blessed for having the opportunity to enjoy an extended stretch of time with the person whom he esteemed above all others. As far as he could tell, his uncle had showed no unusual signs of fatigue, no aches in the joints or shortness of breath, and his wits – not to mentions his tongue – were just as sharp as ever they had been.

Not that Frodo hadn't reached an advanced age in his own right, although one would have hardly guessed that his milestone one hundred and eleventh birthday had come and gone (albeit without ceremony) some time ago. True, his once-brown locks had been mostly exchanged for silver and a tracery of new lines had been delicately carved into his marbleised skin, but his youthful vigor had not forsaken him nor had he lost any of the brilliance of his intelligent and thoughtful eyes. A healthy strawberry blush coloured his face yet, and he was given to taking long, seaside walks as often as he could bring himself to be away from Bilbo. He knew that much of this uncanny vitality was due to the extraordinary healing properties of his milieu, but then Bilbo himself had been a rather active and industrious hobbit himself at Frodo's present age – and Frodo had taken after Bilbo in more ways than one.

But now, as he surveyed his much-aged uncle, he wondered if these prolonged periods of sleep might not be a symptom of some greater weariness that he had refrained from giving voice to. He found himself wondering how _he_ should feel if he were to go on living for another half a century or more, Undying Lands or no Undying Lands. Though the aging process had been significantly delayed, it had not been altogether halted – were not his own graying hair and lined face testaments to that inescapable reality? And then, of course, there was the matter of the Ring…

The Ring. Even after all of these years, he blanched at the recollection of that odious trinket. He had hoped with all the power of his being that he would truly be free of its thralldom once he had taken his last voyage, and it mostly had been so. Truly, he had found respite and blissfulness beyond his greatest imagining in the Blessed Realm and he had not entertained a single moment's regret for his decision to part ways with Middle-earth, as difficult a task as that had been. Yet to be completely and utterly free of all the memories associated with his Quest was impossible, though the vividness and immediacy of these memories had been assuaged with time. The stub of his missing finger, the white line of a scar on his shoulder, these were un-ignorable tokens of his horrifying trials. So then, were his and Bilbo's prolonged life yet another consequence of the Ring's lasting influence?

"_Good heavens, Frodo, what an awful notion! For surely, it is the powers of good that allow Bilbo and myself to endure in this state of peace and content, not the devices of some lingering evil_."

So he told himself, and his anxieties were quieted considerably. But looking into Bilbo's face, he wondered if similar doubts had assailed him as well, if he had ever been compelled to ward off such sinister murmurings. He did not think so, for it was a subject that he rarely touched upon and, indeed, seemed almost to have forgotten entirely. Still, he could not stand to think of his beloved uncle shrinking under the weight of his years, clinging on to an overlong life that he would not have elected for himself in the first place. He thought of the way that the lengthened years had warped and twisted the pitiable Gollum, and a shudder passed through him.

"_I shall have to confront him with it myself at the next opportune moment. I hate to cast a damper on his spirits and trouble him with such unpleasantness, but I feel that I must, for his sake as much as my own_."

And he resolved to do just that.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo lay sleeping in the midst of a very curious dream. He knew it to be a dream, for in it, he was in the bloom of his youth and the height of his vigour. It seemed that he was preparing to set off on a footrace – another notion that was preposterous on the face of it, he thought with amusement – though the faces of his fellow racers were hazy and indistinct. A signal shot was fired, reverberating loudly into the ether, and Bilbo took off at a run. He was able to match the pace of his competitors, keeping to the middle of the pack as dozens of hobbit feet dashed across a straight, unswerving path, kicking up a low cloud of dust as they went. Then he began to pull ahead and overtake even the frontrunners who were by now becoming winded with exhaustion and fell far behind. His heart soared in triumph as the finish line drew nearer, his certain victory imminent.

"_Nearly there, Bilbo old boy, just a bit further ahead_," he urged himself forward.

But although his goal remained ever in sight, he grew no closer to achieving it. In fact, it seemed that the harder he pushed himself to it, the further into the distance it retreated. He snuck a hasty peek behind his shoulder, but there was no sign of any of the other runners, and he became vaguely unsettled in his mind.

"_No choice but to go onward_," he thought, "_that's the way of things, after all_," and he set his jaw in determination. But the task proved more challenging than he had anticipated as weariness besieged him and his legs grew more reluctant to propel him forward. His breathing became laboured and a glistening patina of sweat varnished his skin as he spurred his aching muscles on, willing himself to finally made an end of it. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead fiercely and, drawing his hand back, was shocked to find that it was dappled with age spots and rutted with deep wrinkles. Still, he was pushed irresistibly forward, as though by some external force, until he was all but certain that his legs would give out entirely and he would crumple to the ground in a pathetic heap. He was now bent over double, every ounce of his being screaming in protest as a rattling wheeze escaped his burning lungs.

"_One more mile, just one more mile_," he tried to rally himself as he finally appeared to close in on his destination. He had only a short distance to cover now; he could make it if he could only hang in for a few more furlongs. Here it came, not more than a stone's throw away now – he would win this wretched course yet!

"_That's it, keep going, nearly there_," his inner voice cried with rising urgency. He had dropped to his knees by now, and was clambering on all fours, but there was the finishing mark mere metres away. His hands clawed through the dirt and the gravel as he pulled himself forward, dragging himself painfully through the debris that choked his throat and stung his eyes. He stretched a hand outward in a final, desperate attempt to cross over into the victor's circle, but a voice caused the scene to precipitately disperse in a fast-dissolving cloud of smoke.

"Rise and shine, Uncle!"

Bilbo lifted his heavy-hooded eyelids slowly, which proved a considerable effort in its own way, and he willed a smile onto his face despite the bitter aftertaste his dream had left on his palate. He was quite relieved that Frodo had interceded when he did, for the fatigue that had afflicted him in his dream-world had been too intensely real for his liking. And yet, he found himself wondering what the final outcome might have been: if he should have hauled himself across the finish line at last or be thwarted once again in a fruitless struggle. Fortunately, the memory and the visceral rawness of this imagined ordeal was already receding, his inner tranquility returning to him.

"_Leave it to the Elves to find a cure for anything_," he mused and greeted his nephew with his usual feistiness.

How he loved to engage in this light, playful banter with Frodo! When one had attained an age as substantial as his, it became something of a necessity to retain a certain sense of youthful cheek. Not that he was operating under any misapprehensions – to say that he was ancient would be putting the matter lightly, as far as he was concerned – but he fancied that his faculties were still running quite smoothly, all things considered, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as he could.

"_And how long might that be_?" he asked to himself, but it was not a question he was equipped to answer. Luckily for him, however, he was on very friendly terms with someone who was.

"_I will have to lay the matter before Gandalf_," he determined, _"he knows best, after all_."

It was not that Bilbo was suffering from malcontent or physical ailment – such things had no place in Elvenhome. Rather, he felt as though he were simply _enduring_, that he had ceased to be productive in his life except perhaps as a companion to Frodo and quite unsuitable for anything but eating and the occasional jest. It was as if he were an overripe fruit withering on the vine, drinking feebly of the light of a sun that could not restore him back to greenness. He was well aware of the privilege he had been accorded in living out his golden years in the hallowed country of Aman, but unlike his neighboring Elves, the gift of immortality was not his to claim.

"_My, but this life does go on dreadfully long_," he sometimes thought to himself. "_I wonder what Lobelia would say if she could see me now, or any of my old acquaintances for that matter! Ah, but one does wonder if there's some truth in what is said about 'too much of a good thing.' I must remember to have a word with Gandalf_," and his thoughts would meander to other subjects.

At the present, the mention of breakfast had quite driven out any ulterior plans he might have otherwise concocted, and he tottered off to the table with Frodo lending a supporting arm.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo wiped his hands off with a dish towel, having just finished the post-breakfast washing up. Bilbo had nodded off in his chair before Frodo could even begin to make his overtures, an occurrence which was by no means uncommon, leaving Frodo to his own reflections.

"_I wonder what it is he dreams of, if he dreams at all during these fitful sleeping spells of his_," he thought. "_I hope that they are pleasant and glad, so that he might awake refreshed and renewed, with a lightness of limb and a buoyancy of spirit that will add to the blessedness that surrounds him_."

The mid-morning light filled the room like honey in a mason jar and the intermittent sound of gulls cawing the endless refrain to an age-old sea shanty could be distantly heard. Frodo regarded his uncle in earnest, considering him not with the undiscriminating eye of one who had grown accustomed to his company but in the objective glare of uncompromising reality. His scant hair was white and downy as rabbit's fur and had lost its former curliness, his wrinkled skin was as fragile and diaphanous as a sheet of parchment paper, the flesh hanging pendulously from his jowls, his frame was noticeably sparer than was his wont, not robust and healthy but lean and waning. Frodo knitted his brow concernedly, wondering why he had not observed these changes before. He drew closer, taking care not to disturb Bilbo out of his sleep, scarcely drawing breath as he approached. Had his eyes deceived him? Could it be that the heady charms of the Undying Lands had shrouded his vision in a gauzy veil all this time, rendering him blind to Bilbo's fading life-force? Had he been so selfish as to overlook the fact that Bilbo's advancing years were binding upon him, sapping his strength and depleting the very essence of who he was?

He stepped furtively towards his uncle, his eyes refocussed with gimlet discernment, when Bilbo abruptly lifted his drooping head of off his chest.

"Oh, there you are, Frodo!" he exclaimed, startling the unsuspecting hobbit rather badly, "I was just running over some verses in my head, though I can't be sure if they were mine or someone else's. Ah well, I don't have much of a head for songs these days, except as a passive listener. One does feel rather in over his head, what with such lovely music as we are like to hear. No, I'm afraid that any lines I might put to paper pop right out of my mind just as soon as they are thought of. What a shame, for I should like to write a bit of poetry before…"

"Before what, Uncle?" Frodo asked gently.

"Before…well, before I've completely lost my wits, I suppose," Bilbo joked, smiling half-heartedly, though his eyes were distracted as though he were trying to grasp onto some other thought that he could not – or would not – express in words.

"That shall not come to pass as long as I have any say in the matter," reassured Frodo, helping Bilbo out of his chair. "But while we are on the subject, there is something I have been meaning to ask you. Would you care to join me outside so we can have a talk in the fresh air?"

"Yes, I should like that very much indeed," Bilbo replied.

Frodo and Bilbo settled themselves into their matching plush-backed chairs on the verandah which afforded them a breathtaking view of the countryside. The grass flung outward like a vast emerald blanket, steeping the world in an aroma of springtime dew, until it met the opalescent grains of sand that gleamed white like powdered sugar. The Sea lapped at its feet, sending forth salt-infused mists that hung suspended like a pause at the bottom of a breath and evaporated back into the atmosphere.

Bilbo's eyes lowered, not in sleepiness but in gratification, as the sound of the Sea caressed his ears and the sweet fragrances of the island flora met his nose. Frodo gazed sidelong at him and, misreading his face, was dismayed that yet another opportunity to have a heart-to-heart with him had been dashed. But Bilbo raised his eyelids and spoke.

"There are some things that I shall never tire of, Frodo," he said. "For, you know, I could not imagine a better way to greet the dawning of each day than spending it in this wondrous country with you by my side." And he covered Frodo's hand with one of his own and squeezed it firmly.

"Nor could I, Bilbo," Frodo answered, his heart brimming with love for the old hobbit. "Your happiness has ever been my chief concern," he continued, giving weight to each word. "It is precisely for that reason that I wish to talk to you. Has anything, anything at all, been troubling you at heart or in mind? Have you been feeling like yourself lately, or has something upset your balance?"

Frodo's words seemed to extract something buried deep within the vaults of Bilbo's memory, although he could not quite put his finger on what it was he had unearthed. Something had been gnawing at him, sure enough, but the exact cause still remained half-submerged in forgetfulness. Bilbo's hand seemed to go slightly limp on top of Frodo's and his eyes became distant and detached. Frodo marked these changes and waited anxiously for his response.

"Bilbo?" he implored.

Bilbo withdrew his hand hastily, placing it back in his lap, his eyes lucid and present once more.

"Troubling me? Well, no, no, what should bother me here of all places? I've been quite myself, really; who else should I be? Certainly I'm tired rather oftener than I once was, but that is only to be expected, I suppose. Goodness knows it's been a long road!"

_Now what did a road signify?_ he wondered silently, for it somehow seemed connected to what Frodo was trying to get at and what he was declining to mention.

"So you are feeling well then?" Frodo asked, unsatisfied with Bilbo's transparent equivocations.

"Yes, yes, just as well as can be hoped, relic that I am!" he smiled, meeting Frodo's eye. Reading the concern in his nephew's expression, however, he grew serious for a moment. "Now there, don't worry your head over me, Frodo. As I say, having you with me is a joy I should not exchange for anything in the world. There's not a soul who could look after me better, or with more care. Believe me when I say that your friendship and the glory of these fair lands have made these years the very best that I have lived, and that, my boy, is saying something," he asserted with conviction.

Frodo favoured him with a grateful smile and fell silent. He perceived that Bilbo spoke truthfully, but he was also aware that he did not disclose all that was in his mind. What had been the meaning behind that preoccupied stare? In any case, he did not think he was going to get much further by plying him with more questions.

"It gladdens me to hear you say so. But know that I am always willing to listen if there's anything – mind you, anything – that you'd like to discuss. If there is something that you need, you have only to name it, and I will see it done."

"As a matter of fact, there was something I was going to ask you, and all this talk has jogged my memory, as fortune would have it. I was wondering if you'd escort me to see old Gandalf this evening, for it's been a terribly long time since we last broke bread together, and I fear that he should think me horribly inconsiderate for going so long without paying him a visit," Bilbo said.

"Of course, I am certain that Gandalf will receive you gladly," Frodo answered, rather surprised at his uncle's request. It was seldom that Bilbo had a mind to journey much farther than his front doorstep, but he supposed that he had his own reasons which might, with any luck, become plain later on.

As for Bilbo, he was unsure what passing whim had induced him to seek out Gandalf's company, but something told him that it concerned a matter of some urgency.


	4. Chapter 4

The wind sighed softly in the rushes and the ocean waves crested with rose-coloured foam as the Sun dipped downward toward the place where water and sky converged. Dusk was fast approaching, and Bilbo gathered up his travelling cloak and walking-stick, eager to be on his way.

"_Now where has that nephew of mine got to_," he thought impatiently, "_I had hoped to set out ere the setting of the sun, but it seems he is intent on spoiling my plans_. Come Frodo, what's keeping you?" he called out in a stentorian voice.

"Just a moment!" Frodo called back from his bedchamber, fidgeting with the clasp of his own cloak. "_So this is what becomes of Frodo of the Nine Fingers; the poor wretch can't even properly do up his coat without making an infernal fool of himself_!" It was not, however, the missing digit that was hindering him, but a slight tremor that shook his hands and preyed upon his nerves.

"_What has gotten into you, Frodo_?" he reproved himself, marveling at this unprovoked bout of discomposure. "_Good heavens, we are only paying Gandalf a visit, there is no reason to take on so_," he propounded, collecting himself as best he could. Still, his heart fluttered a good deal more rapidly than it should have, and his mind seemed to careen wildly as the events of the day returned to him in a phantasmagoria of flitting images. This morning's recollection of the Ring and of what it had done to the ill-fated Gollum, Bilbo dozing at the dining-room table looking so delicate and wan, his sudden desertion as Frodo had tried to coax his worries out from their hiding place: all of it seemed a grim augury of future tidings. Perhaps seeing Gandalf _would_ be the wisest course of action, for Frodo felt quite at a loss in his present condition.

With a steadying breath, he made his way to the parlour and met Bilbo at the front door.

"There you are, and about time too! You know that you are poorly off when a mouldy old hobbit like me beats you to it," he quipped. Frodo managed a thin smile and opened the door.

"Come then, let's be off," he said sedately.

Bilbo hobbled over the threshold, leaning a gnarled hand heavily on his walking-stick, and he found himself inadvertently picking up the tune to a well-remembered song.

_The road goes ever on and on_

_Down from the…_

He stopped singing. He made another go at it.

_The road goes ever…on and…on_

His voice failed him once more. Something in those words composed so long ago struck a nerve, and an overwhelming heaviness descended upon him. He blinked his eyes a few times in quick succession and he passed a hand over his forehead.

"Bilbo? Bilbo, what's wrong?" Frodo exclaimed, taking his uncle by the shoulders and gazing anxiously into his face.

"Do you know, it's the strangest thing," Bilbo answered weakly, "it seemed that I had just remembered something very important, and all of a sudden I feel as though my feet are weighted down and refuse to move."

"All right, Bilbo, it's all right. Let's get you back inside and off of your feet. Can you walk at all, do you think, just back through the door?" he asked, disguising the alarm in his voice but inwardly quailing at the idea of having to lift Bilbo bodily, centenarian that he was.

"Yes, yes, I can manage. The moment has passed, I think," said Bilbo, half-truthfully; for though he had seemed to regain mobility in his legs again, he had not shaken off the jarring sensation that had smote him so powerfully, as if he had unwittingly dredged up a very unhappy experience he would have sooner forgotten. Frodo draped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders and held onto his uncle's hand with the other as they made their slow progress back into the sitting-room. Bilbo eased himself carefully onto the settee and exhaled tiredly.

"I am sorry to put you through that, Frodo. I don't know what came over me exactly," he said, struggling to make sense of it all.

"Gracious, Bilbo, there is no need to apologise," Frodo consoled, caressing his hand. "You did give me quite a scare back there though, I'll not hide the fact. How are you feeling now?"

Bilbo met Frodo's eyes. He ventured a small, impulsive smile, but it foundered on the rock of dismay and was lost. His chin began to tremble and his eyes shone with tears of confusion and sadness.

"Uncle," Frodo whispered, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. He squeezed his eyes shut, staving off his own tears even as his heart was breaking inside of him. He stroked the back of his uncle's head until he had settled down and was at last quiet. He pulled back to face him again, holding him at arm's length, a hand clapped on each of his shoulders.

"What is it, Bilbo? You must tell me, for I cannot help you if you will not say what ails you."

"I wish that I knew, Frodo, but I cannot seem to reconcile my head to it. I will confess, it is this same peculiar feeling that drove me to seek an audience with Gandalf this evening. It is not that I wished to conceal anything from you," he added quickly, seeing the wounded look flash across Frodo's face, then sighed. "But then, I suppose I have not been completely honest with you, and for that, I am truly sorry. I do need help, Frodo, it is true. I feel as though I have come to a pass, and the way before me is dark and uncertain. Who now can come to my aid, I wonder?"

Frodo sat mutely, battling to find words of solace and encouragement, but all of them rang fatuous and hollow in his own head. Pithy pledges of support and stoutly-phrased rallying cries were unequal to the task of effecting real change. There are some forces in this world that press upon us inexorably, some deep-seated soul-longings that no fine sentiments or hearty clap on the back can rescind, and it was this realisation that found Frodo speechless and stultified.

"I am going to fetch Gandalf myself," he said at last, finding no other recourse at his disposal. "Sit tight, Uncle, I shan't be gone long," he added, hurrying toward the door.

He did not have far to travel, however, for just as he was about to place his hand on the doorknob, a knock came from without.


	5. Chapter 5

The eyes of the Valar are far-seeing, penetrating to the furthest reaches of Eä and perhaps beyond toward a greater infinitude beyond the ken of beings mortal and immortal. From the inconceivably high to the infinitesimally small, there is little that escapes their ceaseless vigilance, and the movements within their own lands are best known to they who reside on the sacred pinnacle of Mount Taniquetil. Messages take wing on the very elements in Aman, lifting on high and speeding toward the ears of the mighty Ainur, guardians of the World that Is and tireless defenders of peace and harmony.

So it was that the winds brought news to Manwë of the plight of a certain hobbit who, even now, was being ushered gingerly inside his homestead by his much-distressed kinsman. Thither was the Lord of the Valar's thought turned, and he sent forth a winged herald to one who could bring succour in Bilbo Baggins's hour of need.

XXXXX

Frodo flung the door open and was supremely relieved to find none other than Gandalf himself standing opposite him.

"Gandalf!" he cried. "Praise Eru, but I am glad you are here!"

"Well met, indeed, Frodo Baggins!" Gandalf returned, "I could have hardly asked for a kindlier reception! But you have worked yourself up into quite a state, my dear hobbit, that much is evident."

"It's Bilbo…he is not well. I was just running to find you," he explained hurriedly. "Please, come in. He is resting just inside."

Bilbo was nodding in his chair but perked up straightaway at the sight of Gandalf between his half-closed lids.

"Goodness me, you must have sprouted wings and bore Gandalf upon your back to have returned so soon, Frodo, or else I have been napping much longer than I supposed," he said.

"Nay, your nephew has not become so lofty that he may soar through the skies at his leisure, nor would I entrust any but Gwaihir to the task of lugging around one as ungainly and cumbersome as I – I am afraid your Frodo should sink like a stone under such a weight! No, it was quite another set of wings that brought me here," he said, lavishing upon Frodo a conspiratorial wink.

"You'll have to speak more plainly than that, for I cannot imagine what could bring you here other than a stroke of very good fortune," said Bilbo.

"Assistance often rides on the wings of fortune," replied Gandalf enigmatically. "But if you'd really like to know, it just so happened that I was passing through and I thought I would drop by to see how you were keeping, for it is long since last we conversed."

Frodo wondered at his reply, for it had been his experience that wizards hardly acted upon unpremeditated impulses unless there was a very good reason for doing so.

"And it seems that I arrived at a rather fortuitous moment, for Frodo tells me that you are unwell," he finished.

"I am afraid I have been a bit out of sorts lately, yes" Bilbo wavered. "To tell you the truth, I feel quite spent, for I have just had a rather trying time, you know. I hate to be an ungracious host but I could really do with a lie down."

"Then you shall have it!" said Gandalf, guessing at the pretext behind the request. "Come, I shall bear you to your chambers. Never you mind, Frodo, I shall handle it from here," he said with authority, stopping Frodo in his tracks. "You are shaken and upset," he added in gentler tones. "But all shall be taken care of. So take heart and set your mind at ease, for you too have had a rather nasty shock. It is time that you tended to yourself now," and lifting Bilbo, he carried him into his bedroom as a mother would a babe and slipped from sight.

Frodo stood rooted to the spot, feeling strangely like a lighthouse whose guiding lamp had been doused and could steer no one safely back to harbour. He was shut out, excluded, and painfully out-of-the-know.

He had, however, latched onto certain key phrases that Bilbo had uttered before Gandalf had arrived, for they had evoked a host of feelings he had once been intimately acquainted with in another age of the world. Had not Bilbo spoken, however briefly, of a darkness that he could not navigate, of an overriding sense of uncertainty that rendered him hopeless to choose for fear of falling? And what of the weight that had suddenly pressed down upon him, making his shoulders stoop and his feet drag across the ground? Shouldn't Frodo, of all people, be able to understand what afflicted his uncle? Had he not borne a comparable weight, faced down a darkness unfathomably deep; hadn't he survived though every odd had been stacked against him and the malice of a ruthless enemy had rained down on him in endless store? And he had faced it all in the bleakest and most desperate of circumstances; but here, Bilbo was safe, protected, nestled in the very cradle of blessedness.

Then again, perhaps their burden was not of the same nature. He saw the error of imposing his own hardships too liberally on his uncle, and pondered the wisdom of his reasoning. This morning, he had given serious thought to the possibility that the Ring was playing one last spiteful trick on the both of them; could it be that Frodo had been deceiving himself all along? Had the Ring been an easy culprit to point the finger of blame at, a means to conveniently avoid what was truly at work? His head reeled with dead-end rationalisations.

"_Perhaps I should heed Gandalf's advice and empty my head of all these bitter thoughts_," he cogitated, but he sensed the inherent futility of such an enterprise. He sat down stiffly in the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands. His ears sought out the strain of some Elvish song, the like of which could often be heard when the Moon showed its pearlescent face in the diamond-studded sky, but he was met with only a chilling and ponderous silence.

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Bilbo rested his head against the feather pillow and felt himself sink into the bed where Gandalf had kindly deposited him. He was pleased to finally have a word alone with him, for he did not wish to trouble Frodo with any more of his problems needlessly; the poor fellow had been through enough as it was for one day. He sat up with an effort, fearing that he should surely lose consciousness underneath the satin coverlet and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Not tired, then?" said Gandalf, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

"That's just the thing, Gandalf, I am always tired, and it has become a fretful nuisance," Bilbo answered. "But I wonder if it isn't more than just tiredness. It has been a strange day."

"Tell me all, Bilbo, and hide nothing; you know, old friend, that any discomfort of yours touches me deeply, for I am hopelessly partial to you," he said.

"Your partiality has gotten me into some pretty scrapes in the past," Bilbo replied laughingly, "but then, I have been repaid by your involvement – your 'interfering' as folks back home might say – many times over and count myself very fortunate indeed to know you as I do." He paused, deliberating on how to proceed. "I shall tell you openly, for I suspect you should know if I made any effort to conceal my mind, that I sometimes feel that I'm just a dusty old mathom mouldering away in a storeroom. Or that I'm a boarder who has overstayed his welcome, if you prefer. I have derived great joy from these lands, and of course Frodo has always been my life's greatest blessing, but there is something nagging at me in spite of all. Frodo tried to drag it out of me today, but I sort of pushed it down and shooed it away. Then we set out to see you and…and…"

The stars seemed to fall into alignment and the world came sharply into focus as Bilbo thought back on what had transpired. His eyes widened with the magnitude of his revelation, and he grabbed onto the thought before it could elude his grasp again.

"It was a dream, a dream I had this morning that my old walking song brought back to mind! I remember it now. And I think I finally understand the meaning of all of this."

"Yes, Bilbo, I believe that you do," said Gandalf soberly, for he had seen the light of understanding shine across Bilbo's countenance. "And when you are ready, I shall be there to accompany you."

"Good, good, then it is settled. Thank you, Gandalf, for hearing me out. My mind feels clearer than it has for some time now."

Then Gandalf helped him back into bed and drew the covers up around him, and with a wistful smile departed from the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Frodo was lying across the sofa cushions wringing his hands nervously when Gandalf reappeared. He sat bolt upright and rose to his feet in one swift motion.

"How is he, Gandalf?" he begged.

"At the present, I should say he is much better off than you yourself, Frodo," he said, with a thinly-veiled touch of reproof.

"I know that I have worked myself up to a frightful condition; but how can I be blamed? I don't know what would become of me if anything happened to Bilbo."

"You forget that you are under the protection of the Valar where no harm can befall him or you. And he is not harmed, nor will he be; all your uncle wanted was a little straightening out. He is resting now, and is perfectly untroubled."

"So it is not as I feared then? It is not the mischief of…of the Ring that plagues him?"

"Heavens, whatever put that idea in your mind? No, Frodo, nothing as serious as all that, I can assure you. Perish the thought!" Gandalf replied.

Frodo shifted uncomfortably at having named the object of his fears so openly and in so unbefitting a place. Strangely, he was not flooded in the wave of relief he had would have expected to accompany Gandalf's assurance.

"Has the Ring presented itself to you in your thoughts often, Frodo?" Gandalf prodded, his brow furrowed with paternal concern.

"Not often, no. But observing Bilbo's behaviour today opened up a door that I have long braced myself against. It seemed to me that he was _vanishing_ somehow, that something inside of him had altered and was casting a pall on his happiness. And I thought of the conversation we had long ago about the Ring drawing out life to unnatural lengths. You spoke of the creature Gollum them, and I wondered…" he trailed off.

"Do not let those old associations darken your mind, for Bilbo's fate is no longer tethered to the cares of the past. You have me at my word when I say that he has been quite cured of any hurts the Ring may have inflicted on him. But you, Frodo, must not invite such misgivings in the days to come. You journeyed to these lands to be healed, but even the might of the Valar and all of their host will avail you little if you insist on opening old wounds."

Frodo nodded faintly and directed his gaze groundward. Gandalf crouched before him so that their eyes were on a level and he took the discomfited hobbit gently by the shoulders.

"You have a courage in you, Frodo, that many among the Great could not rival. Remember that! For Bilbo will need your strength now more than ever. I know you will not fail him."

The words were like kindling set to the firewood of Frodo's resolve, and he straightened noticeably with an air of decision, sweeping away the ashes of dejection. That night, after Gandalf had taken his leave and the Moon had waxed to its full, Frodo knelt by his bedside, his hands folded in prayer, and he sent a tender appeal to Ilúvatar on Bilbo's behalf hoping that his small voice would have the power to carry even to the outermost margins of the world.

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The next morning, Frodo rose to wake Bilbo as he had done every day, stepping lightly into his room with a newfound equanimity and self-possession. His night's rest had imbued him with a sense of calm and a readiness to face the world without fear or doubt. He was prepared to trust to the forces that were greater than he with grace and composure and willing to submit to whatever those powers might ordain.

To his surprise, he found that Bilbo was not in bed as he normally was at this hour, but sitting window-side with his back to him.

"Well, isn't this a sight!" Frodo enthused, beaming with jollity. "Bilbo Baggins up and about at day break without so much as a wakeup call? Will wonders never cease?"

Then Bilbo turned around, and Frodo's smile withdrew, for he felt that his levity has been sorely misplaced, inappropriate even.

"Yes, I am up. Indeed, I have been up for some time now. I thought to myself, 'Bilbo, it's too long since you last saw the Sun rise,' and that was true enough. I had nearly forgotten how beautiful the Sun looks as she colours the distant mountains gold and glistens off the city spires. It is almost as if there is a great suspense before she makes her appearance, as though the very land and sea wait with bated breath just to be favoured with a glance from her and blushes when she touches down on them. It's strange that we should forget to notice such things, take them for granted. Well, not today, I thought. Today, I want to remember what it is to begin anew."

Frodo lowered himself wordlessly to the bed, sitting across from his uncle in reverent silence. Now was the time for listening.

"Do you remember the first day you came to live with me in Bag End? I shall never forget the look on your face as we rode up to your new home; why, they were just as big as tea saucers! And the excitement, oh the excitement of it all as it thrilled through you – believe you me, it was not lost on me, not for a moment. And I was so pleased to watch you respond to everything around you, to find you such an eager pupil, to watch you grow and thrive before my very eyes. You had a touch of the scamp about you in the early days if you remember, but I daresay you were quite cured of that! Ah, but I did admire your spirit; reminded me of myself when I was a lad. But Frodo, from the first moment that I laid eyes on you, I knew that you were bound for greatness. I do not say that as an overly-fond and perhaps foolishly sentimental uncle; I say it because it was as clear as daylight on a summer's morn. And yet, even I could not foresee how true that would prove, for you, my boy, have exceeded my greatest expectations. There is not a hobbit on all this green earth that is prouder of one of his relations than I am of you. You are an inspiration to all of our kind – nay, to all kinds, Elf, Man, and Dwarf alike. I don't tell you often enough how much you mean to me, Frodo, and I hope I may be pardoned. But I say it now: you have given me untold joy in my adulthood and purpose in my age. You have been a friend in times of need and a warmth in times of mirth. Your patience with me has been without limit and your kindnesses without number. And I love you with all the strength of this old heart of mine. It is an honour to share the name of Baggins with you."

Frodo took Bilbo by the hand as a freshet of tears coursed down the contours his face – tears of gratefulness for the gift of these wonderful words and tears of sadness for what he now knew was destined to follow.

"Alas, I cannot forever remain here with you," said Bilbo quietly. Frodo bowed his head in sorrow and drew a hand over his eyes, weeping as though from the very bottom of his soul. When he looked up again, he saw the Sun shining on the peaks of the Pelóri, even as his uncle had described it, and the light of it arrayed Bilbo like golden raiment, and he was calmed. At length, Bilbo continued.

"I have lived a long, rich life; indeed, I have lived well beyond my allotted years. I have done more than I ever would have thought possible and seen more than I could have ever dreamed. But I cannot continue hoarding up the years of my life and sitting on them like, well, like a dragon on his mound of gold, now that I think of it. But even in all the time that I have spent in this world, through all the seasons that have come and gone and the ages that have slipped by, I fear that it _still_ has been too short a time to live among such an excellent and admirable hobbit," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Now the time has come to set off on one last journey. Gandalf has made all the arrangements. And I'd like for you to be there. But when all is done, you must return with hope in your heart, for your time in the Blessed Lands is not yet spent."

Silence reigned as the two hobbits sat together, drinking in of the final precious moments that they were to enjoy together, when at last, it was broken by a knocking on the front door.

"That will be my escort now," said Bilbo, "let us not keep him waiting! Come Frodo, it is time to go."

With careful steps, Frodo led Bilbo out of the bedroom and into the front parlour. He opened the door, and Gandalf stood before them foremost, but behind him were Elrond and Galadriel, and stretching far back was a procession of High Elves, solemn and beautiful. Frodo looked on in awe, and his heart was deeply moved. On Bilbo's face was a delighted smile, and he took the hand that Gandalf proffered him.

"Mae govannen, Bilbo," Elrond intoned. "We have come to deliver you to the reward that was promised by Eru and whose destination is known to He alone. Are you ready to depart?"

Bilbo looked out among all that fair assembly and heard the sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline. He breathed deeply of the sweet-smelling air, holding his head erect.

"Yes, I am ready," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

The divine concourse that followed Bilbo as he took his last steps in the glorious province of Aman was unlike any assemblage that had ever been gathered in that land. About them gleamed an aura of shimmering luminescence that was augmented by the brilliance of the Sun, and in each of their hands was clasped the white flower _simbelmynë_. They moved as effortlessly as liquid silver, singing as they went in voices magnificent to hear, leaving an afterimage of light in their wake more dazzling than the train of a falling star.

Bilbo was at last conveyed into the very heart of Valinor, and there a bier stood to receive him amid a panoply of delicate flowers. The company halted, and the Elves raised their voices with renewed clarity, their eyes glistening like multi-faceted jewels as they looked on.

Bilbo gathered up Frodo into a final embrace, and the hearts of all the assembly swelled to witness the grievousness of their parting. Then Gandalf took Bilbo by the hand once more and led him forward to his last resting-place. Gently, he was borne up, his head placed on the pillow that had been laid out for him, and he fell into a sleep from which there would be no waking. Peace was on his face.

"Namárië, Bilbo Baggins," said Galadriel sadly.

"Farewell, my old friend," Gandalf echoed, as tears stood out in his eyes.

Frodo did not speak.

It was with halting steps that Frodo was led back home as he blinked through a mist of tears and grief constricted his throat. All throughout the night, the Elves sang a requiem celebrating Bilbo's long and storied life and lamenting the loss that the world had suffered now he was no longer part of it, and their music fell on Frodo's ears like a poetical fountain of bittersweet lyricism. The words sung in that high tongue of the Eldar lodged into his very soul, occupying the emptiness begotten by Bilbo's absence and pooling in his wounded heart like puddles of limpid rain.

He sat motionless by his front window as the aria of the Elves and the eternal song of the Sea commingled, his mind numbed by the dull throb of fresh mourning. He wanted to remember every moment that he and Bilbo had lived together, he wanted to fasten himself upon every glad time and every tear shed and to hear the strident voice of his uncle as though it were a tangible sound. But every memory he endeavoured to recall dispersed in an insubstantial tendril of smoke, leaving him to an arid emptiness of mute space.

He remained there through the long passage of the night, staring out absently with eyes that marked nothing, until he finally succumbed to an uneasy sleep in the small hours of the morning, slumped over in his chair as he was.

It seemed a matter of mere moments after drowsiness had taken him when he heard a gentle rapping on the front door. He sat up groggily, his eyes adjusting resentfully to the light of day, and pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. Shambling to the front door, he dimly registered the pang of hunger that pitched through his stomach; he had gone a full day without taking so much as a morsel. When he opened the door, he half-expected to find a great host come to bear him away as they had done Bilbo the day before, for he felt as close to death as he could remember feeling since his trek into Mordor. However, it was only Gandalf who stood waiting to be admitted, and Frodo stood back so that he could pass.

"I hope I have not disturbed you," said Gandalf, apologetically, "but I thought that you might desire a visitor."

"I appreciate your coming, Gandalf, but I don't think I shall make a very good host," said Frodo regretfully.

"I did not come to sit at tea-table with you Frodo but to speak with you, if I may be permitted. Frodo gave a small, tired nod and offered him a seat.

"I know the shock of what has happened is still very new, and that it will take time to recover from it," Gandalf continued, "but take comfort in the fact that Bilbo left with a willing heart. So it shall be you one day with you; but that day is not yet come. Speaking to you the other night awoke grave concerns in me, Frodo, and I fear your situation is graver still now that the weight of a fresh loss has been thrust upon you. You _must not_ give in to despair. That would be no way to honour the memory of your uncle, and I suspect he would give you a very sharp scolding if you were to go against his express wishes in such wanton fashion. You have wisdom enough in you to accept what cannot be altered and courage enough to endure through this trial; of that, I am certain. You need only to convince yourself of this truth, and then you will find peace."

Frodo inclined his head, as though to receive what strength he could from Gandalf's encouragement. He did not feel wise or courageous, or primed to endure. He felt listless and forlorn and bowed down by an insupportable heaviness.

"I know that Bilbo went of his own accord, and I fully understand his reasons for going now," Frodo replied. "But getting on without him is a contingency I never prepared for. I am afraid I shall feel terribly alone now that he is gone. It sounds horribly selfish, even in my own ears, but there it is. And then, I wonder if I shall ever meet him again, when my time comes. I feel as though I should fly headlong into the arms of death if I could be reunited with him," and his voice faltered and grew silent.

"I cannot answer for what will happen when you accept your mortal fate, as you know, for the ways of Eru are hidden from all save the Valar, and even they do not understand all of his designs. I do know, however, that you were not meant to lay down broken and defeated by your cares, but to leave even as Bilbo himself left: with a clear mind and a happy heart. And you will have them. The night that Bilbo took ill, I said that assistance often rides on the wings of fortune – remember those words! They may prove true in ways that even I cannot foresee."

With that cryptic message, Gandalf was off, and Frodo reflected on all that had occurred in earnest until the protestations of his rumbling stomach grew too insistent to ignore.


	8. Chapter 8

The days that followed unfolded with agonising slowness, and it felt to Frodo that every minute was stretched to its utmost limit, prolonging his period of bereavement to insufferable lengths. Seconds were wrung out as though from a drying scrap of cloth that begrudgingly lets fall a small drop of moisture when a great deal of pressure is applied. When sleep stole over him, he was visited by strange dreams that startled him back into waking and left a lingering chill as the night dragged on like a wounded thing.

His tears he had depleted, but neither did he smile. He lived as one might live in an empty twilit grove that was once an enchanted wood. The memory of living things persisted, but in memory only.

His fear of loneliness had been quite confirmed. Gandalf made regular visits, to be sure, but there were still so many hours to fill, so many meals eaten in solitude, so much quiet where merry conversation and light-hearted ripostes had once held sway. He sometimes strolled along the coastline at dusk, his hands buried in his trouser pockets and his feet leaving shallow depressions in the sand, but even these little excursions became more infrequent, and it became so that he was seldom seen out of doors.

There were some habits that he was loath to break, however. When the first blush of dawn lit the eastern sky, Frodo would enter into Bilbo's old room and throw back the curtains and speak to him as though he were propped up in bed, newly woken with a genial quip at the ready. So it was this morning, several months after Bilbo had passed.

"Rise and shine, Uncle," he said. "I hope this morning finds you well. See how lovely the Sun looks today? You advised me against taking such things for granted, and I have heeded your warning, as best I can. Yet, it can be difficult to enjoy the beauty of the world when there is no one to share it with. But I am trying my hardest. I am trying to soldier through the days any way that I can. Gandalf has been a great help, as he always is in times of need, but in my mind I begin to wonder how long I can continue on. For now my hopes do not lie in recovery; my hopes are ever fixed on the prospect that I will find you again. I know that is not how you desired it to be…but have I not lived long also? Have I not taken my fill of earthly pleasures? What now is left for me to enjoy? Where do I look for comfort? I try to rise above this gloomy canopy of doubt and sadness but I cannot break its surface. I had thought that the burden of the Ring would be the heaviest I would ever have to bear, but now I find that I am mistaken. The burden of being alone: that is a far greater weight to carry."

Saltwater pooled in his eyes, but a voice behind him brought the moment to an abrupt halt.

"Frodo?"

He turned to find Gandalf standing there, the Sun outlining his shape in the doorframe.

"I am sorry for the intrusion, but I grew alarmed when you had not come to answer the door, which I have been standing at for some time now. I fear that it shall have to be replaced for the holes I have knocked in it!" Gandalf jested.

"My apologies, Gandalf, I did not hear the slightest sound."

"Evidently not," said Gandalf wryly, "I believe I could have splintered your door asunder before you would have taken any notice!"

"Yes, well, as you can see you've caught me quite off my guard, and I am afraid I am indisposed at the moment," Frodo said rather curtly, being not at all in the mood for the wizard's witticisms.

"Perhaps you are, perhaps you are," said Gandalf in a distant voice, "but it is not _I_ who seeks an audience with you. I have brought a visitor."

"A visitor? Why did you not say so?"

"I would have done sooner if you had not been intent on tossing me out where I was clearly not welcome," Gandalf retorted.

Frodo coloured at having forgotten his propriety, despite the fact that he _had_ been taken at unawares in the middle of a rather emotionally charged moment.

"Forgive me for being short with you. I was not in my proper frame of mind. But whoever could want to come calling for me?" said Frodo.

"Someone who comes bringing assistance. He is waiting on you now."

"Tell him I shall see him directly," said Frodo, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand and essaying to smooth down the wrinkles on his shirtfront.

"I take my leave," Gandalf said and removed himself.

Frodo sighed, not much inclined to entertain a visitor at such a time as Gandalf has found him.

"_I must be careful of receiving him more cordially than I did Gandalf, at any rate. All the more if he means to be of some help to me_."

Frodo came forward to greet his guest. And then he was brought to a sudden standstill.


	9. Chapter 9

Frodo was expecting that one of the Elves who knew of his troubles had come to offer up his services, whatever they may be, in leading him down the road to healing. He had already had the Elvish greeting poised on the tip of his tongue and the appropriately humble smile displayed on his face. He had expected to nod his head in agreement at the sagacity of his Elf-friend on several occasions and to see him out warmly, thanking him profusely for deigning to take an interest in his small personal affairs, and then get on with his day much as he ever would.

So when Gandalf had stepped aside and he had seen the silhouette of one much smaller in stature than any Elf he had ever known, his heart had skipped a beat.

His initial thought was that Bilbo had miraculously returned, that all along he had been lying in wait for the right moment to take him by surprise and then declare the cleverness of his prank with a hearty laugh.

Then his visitor stepped into the light.

He was old, yes, but not nearly as old as Bilbo; not even as old as Frodo himself. His curls, like Frodo's, had taken on a decidedly silver hue and his hands were well-worn with the toil of years, but the identity of the face was unmistakable.

"Sam?" an incredulous Frodo said aloud.

The hobbit drew forward shyly, closing the distance between them.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo. It's me. I've come," he said.

"Can it be?" Frodo whispered, taking Sam's face in his trembling hands, soaking up every bit of him down to the last detail with his astonished eyes. "My dear Sam, here with me, in the flesh? I cannot believe it!"

Then he threw his arms around him, scarcely allowing himself to trust to what his eyes beheld; but he felt the warmth radiating from his body, the stout rhythm of his beating heart, his breath tingling on the side of his neck, and he knew that this was no dream. Tears rolled freely down Frodo's face as Sam hugged him, tight and fast, with the arms of a protector, the arms of a life-giver, the arms of a friend.

Frodo closed his eyes as this new and unhoped-for bliss filled the vessel of his maimed heart as though with the very elixir of life.

"I can't hardly believe it myself, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, pulling back just enough to look Frodo in the eyes, "I didn't know as I had it in me – meaning another journey, you understand – what with so many years gone by, and me not getting any younger as you can see right enough for yourself. And I was scared that if I did come, I might be too late."

Frodo thought back to his private morning confessional so lately spoken to his absentee uncle. How close he had come to surrendering himself over entirely, how nearly he might have missed Sam if he indeed opted to take that final leap. That his Sam should cross the Sea and so find him again was a possibility that had not entered Frodo's calculations; indeed, it was an idea that had grown more and more remote with the gradual expiring of years. He had believed that Sam's heart belonged to the Shire, and that he would choose to remain there unto the ending of his days. _But he had come_.

The thought that he might have missed this joyous reunion after so long a separation wrung his heart, and he thanked Eru above for giving him the will to persevere even in the throes of bitterest anguish.

"But you were not too late; indeed, Sam, you were right on time. But it was a near thing," he said candidly.

"I know, sir," said Sam quietly, "Gandalf told me everything, and it broke my heart to hear it. And then he brought me here, and he nearly knocked your door off its hinges, and that gave me a terrible turn, for I thought something _really_ bad might've happened. Then he came rushing in with me following behind just as worried as worried can be, and then I hear a voice and it belongs to you, and…and I didn't feel right about listening in, and I know firsthand how Gandalf takes to eavesdropping, if you remember, sir, but there I was," he finished elliptically, averting his eyes with an embarrassed air.

"You are more than forgiven, Sam, for you have rescued me again, beyond all hope. And it all becomes clear now," said Frodo, thinking back on the message Gandalf had delivered to him. "It's you, Sam, all along it has been you. _You_ are my life's saviour. _You_ are the reason that I endure. Whenever darkness overwhelmed me and despair laid siege to me, it was _you_ that carried me to safety. My grief lay so heavy on me that all else seemed lost in shadow. But I have not forgotten. Sam, you do not know how badly you were missed, how sorely you were needed," and Frodo caressed the side of Sam's face with his good hand, and touched his forehead to his as they cried together with one soul that the years could not divide nor the pains of living subdue. Sam took Frodo's hand in both of his and they stood that way, a profile in love reclaimed and hope renewed. At last, Frodo brought Sam's hands to his lips and kissed them.

"I never would have dreamed that such joy could have followed on the heels of the heartache that I have known. I only hope that your coming was not driven by similarly unhappy circumstances," said Frodo.

Sam swallowed at the lump in his throat with downcast eyes.

"I wish I could say it wasn't, Mr. Frodo; but I lost my dear Rose, bless her soul. Not but what I didn't mean to find you again, if I could. I must've wished it harder than I've ever wished for anything, and all the more in these last years. But my hands were tied, as the saying goes. I had my children to raise, accourse, and no end of business to see to, just as you said it would be. The years have a way of slipping right by you if you don't keep a steady eye on them, if you take my meaning, and it was just like that with me. Afore I knew it, the littl'uns weren't so little anymore but grown up to be hobbits just as fine and good as a father could hope, and then Rose passed on and I was so alone," he faltered, and looked at Frodo through a fog of tears.

"I couldn't stand to be so alone," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I felt so lost and sad I didn't see how I could go on with things as they were. So when I heard you speaking about poor old Bilbo the way you did, I knew that we were meant to find each other. It was all I could do to not come running into the room, but Gandalf said 'wait!' And so I did. But now I'm here and I won't be parted from you ever again, if you'll have me, not if I can help it."

"Yes, Sam, nothing shall part us as long as we both should live. Your pain I have understood only too well; I wish you had never come to know it! Living without Bilbo made each day a dread and a toil, but hereafter, every day spent with you shall be a blessing. Your beloved Rose I shall keep in my prayers, just as I know Bilbo will be in yours, and we will remember the years of happiness that they have brought us and all the ways that they touched our lives and made them so much the richer. We shall pay tribute to their memory not with tears of sorrow, but with hearts full of gladness for the gifts they have given us. That is where the healing will take place. But you are right, Sam, we could not have done it separately. No, I believe that there was a greater plan for us all along. You have supported me through greatest peril and delivered me from direst evil. Now, the time has come for us to lean on one another. Our paths were destined to meet again, I am sure of it. I have trodden down dark roads, but never again. This is to be our last grace, and may it prove the greatest of all. I have found my heaven at last," he said, embracing Sam once more as the light spilled over them and seemed to etherealize them in its molten radiance. In that light, Frodo felt Bilbo's presence more strongly than he had ever done since his passing and was certain that it was he who beamed down upon them, that those warm rays were his arms encircling the two of them and sealing their covenant. He thought of the final parting words that Bilbo had spoken on that fateful day.

"_You must return with hope in your heart, for your time in the Blessed Lands is not yet spent."_

Those had been his words.

"_He knew_," thought Frodo, "_all along, he knew_."

And he would not have been at all surprised if Bilbo had some hand in arranging this, the hour of his redemption. In fact, he was sure of it.

The End

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**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please take a look at its sequel entitled "Into the Arms of Forever." Cheers!


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